


Fires

by orphan_account



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Moving On, adapting, redemption (sort of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 15:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11992833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Rita lives just a little bit longer.





	Fires

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects for being awesome as always.
> 
> Rita went out like a bamf, but I had so many questions. What would it be like to be on Vaughn brain? How would her relationships (or lack thereof) with the rest of the cast change if she'd lived? Did her dad care about her at all? Where would she go for sustenance? And then this happened. Oops. This builds on the backstory in my Rita fic from April, but it's not necessary to read that one at all. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

 

Her name is a distant echo in her ears, twisted and dull in a voice she thinks she knows. It comes closer as the world slides into focus before her eyes, and as she stills beneath the weight atop her.

“ _Rita!”_

She does know that voice, and she knows the person pinning her face down on the marble of the top floor of the company headquarters, the stretch of hallway between the elevator and the doors to her dad’s office.

“ _Rita_. It’s over,” Major says when she stills from her frenetic attempts to break free. He sighs, shifting his weight off her just slightly. “Vaughn’s dead. It’s over.”

It’s over? She forces herself to take a slow, deep breath. It’s over. Vaughn is— _is_ he dead? The thought wakes her completely, sending new life through her undead limbs.

“Let me see.” She struggles under Major, and when he doesn’t immediately fly off her, she snaps, “ _Let me see_.”

He holds his ground a few seconds longer, and then he gets up, holding a hand out to her. Rita, however, turns away, licking her lips as she pushes up off the floor. There’s blood in her mouth, and the taste of brains so fresh that she puts together what happened based on that alone, but she can’t be sure until she sees it. Nine times out of ten, blind trust will get a person killed or worse, and she hasn’t survived all she has to die now, in front of everyone who hates her.

It’s a short walk to the elevator, an easy thing to press the button on the wall and watch the door slide open. There’s movement behind her, voices she doesn’t recognize, a backdrop that turns to white noise as she stares at the remnants of the carnage from moments ago: dead zombies, one with an ax lodged in its skull; blood spattered on the walls, bright red in the white light from overhead; her dad, his head cracked open, brains spilling out of it like chunky dip in an overturned bowl. Rita is herself again, but the hunger stirs in her at the sight of her unfinished meal.

“—go. Rita. _Rita._ ”

It’s Major again, his voice dragging her out of the hunger-fueled madness threatening to overcome her again.

“We have to go,” he tells her. “Fillmore Graves is doing cleanup. They need us to clear the area.”

A man in body armor walks over, gun in hand, and nods at her. “You should go with the other survivors.”

Rita watches Major’s supposed victims walk away with the other soldiers. “I’m—”

“She’s fine,” says Major. “She’s with us.”

The other man frowns at him as she laughs, short and breathy and full of disbelief. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Liv shoot Major a look.

What a shitshow. She’d keep laughing if not for Major, who tells her again that they need to leave.

 

* * *

 

The night air tastes like stillness, like the breath between when a movie fades out and the end credits start to roll. Rita stopped in a restroom on the way down and washed Vaughn’s blood off her face and hands, and now she stands with Liv and Major and Babineaux as explosions go off in what used to be Max Rager HQ and the evidence of another zombie massacre is incinerated.

“We think of everything,” says Vivian Stoll, a woman Rita had never met until tonight. She’s the reason Rita will inherit more money than even she expected her dad would leave behind.

Maybe that deserves a thank you card once the paperwork for her inheritance is processed.

“You’re Vaughn’s daughter, right?” asks Vivian, standing her ground over by one of her company’s vehicles.

Staring at the building that could’ve been hers, Rita nods. Already, black smoke is wafting up out of the basement. Her future is going up in flames.

Vivian says, “I’m sorry.”

Rita turns her head and looks at her. “I won’t be missing him.”

“For how he dicked you over,” Vivian clarifies, nodding at her. “Major filled me in on your father’s last moments, on how he tried to kill you both.”

“In that case, thank you for your condolences.”

Vivian snickers, the laugh wry but not unkind. She walks over to Rita, and their little audience follows her with their eyes.

“The media’s going to want you to give a statement. You up for that?”

Rita shrugs.

“You have to be.” Vivian sighs. “Here’s the thing: everyone who was in that building has to get their story straight. My people are debriefing the survivors on what to say. Your word is going to carry a lot of weight here, and we can’t afford for you to make a mistake. Max Rager may be no more, but you’re still Vaughn Du Clark’s daughter. You’ll have to answer a lot of questions about him.”

“I don’t know anything.” Rita shrugs again, her voice casual even though her entire being feels numb. “He never shared his darkest secrets with me. I don’t know what he wanted with all those people in the basement. All I know is that the party got out of hand and I almost died. I blacked out. When I came to, he was dead.”

She doesn’t flinch under Vivian’s scrutiny, calm like her dad used to be when performing for investors or police investigators. Unlike him, however, she’s telling the truth. At the end of it all, she really didn’t know what he’d been planning. All that talk of looking for a cure or _possibly_ trying to fix the Max Rager formula had been a lie, and she’d been in the dark long before he’d locked her in the basement.

“Stick with that,” Vivian says, giving her a firm nod and a small smirk. “It’s perfect.”

“What can I say? I am my father’s daughter after all.”

Looking Rita up and down, Vivian snickers. “Not quite. You need to tan and dye. We can get you that faster than any place in Seattle and with a lot less of a fuss.”

Rita forces a smile. “Works for me.”

“Stay here. I’ve got some work to wrap up before we go.”

Vivian turns and walks past her, over to one of the soldiers Rita now knows are zombies under Vivian’s command. The world went to shit in the time she was imprisoned, clearly, and it doesn’t seem to be on its way to getting any better.

Liv and friends are on their way out too, exchanging nods and glances in silent code that leaves Rita out in the cold. They’re the only people here she knows to some degree, but she doesn’t belong. The one place she could call her own is burning, and the one person who trusted her is dead.

At least she’ll still have money.

She’s pulled out of her thoughts by the sight of Liv approaching, straight-backed and stony-faced in her fake police uniform. Rita smirks without even thinking about it, an automatic response that even the magnitude of the night’s events can’t shock out of her.

Whatever brain Liv is on keeps her expression neutral until she comes to a stop in front of Rita. Even having to look up doesn’t shake her; Liv holds her gaze with admirable stillness as she takes a deep breath.

And then, with a sigh, the coldness fades away. She is Liv again, sentimental and sad.

“No one deserves to be on Vaughn Du Clark’s brain,” she says, “even someone I hate.”

“You’re sweet,” Rita all but coos.

Liv breathes deep again, lest that hatred overcome her, no doubt. “I don’t know how long you’ve been a zombie—”

“Weeks.”

“Then you know how this goes. You eat someone’s brain, and their most dominant traits overtake you. You see visions of their life whenever you come across a trigger, and you have no way of knowing what is or isn’t a trigger to begin with.”

“He was my dad. I think I’ll know what could trigger a vision.”

“There are entire decades of his life you weren’t around for,” Liv says, and there’s almost—no, there _is_ just the slightest edge of concern to her voice. Angry and righteous, like she knows what’s best. “Your father was pure evil. You’re probably going to see and feel and do horrible things. More so than the horrible things you’ve already done as yourself.”

Crossing her arms, Rita arches her eyebrows and tips her head back a little, quite literally looking down her nose at her former roommate. “Your point?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Liv mutters to herself, then shakes her head and meets Rita’s gaze. “I can get you a brain from the morgue. You’d be taking your chances, but no brain can be worse than Vaughn’s.”

Rita laughs, quietly at first, then louder as the seconds tick by. Is this because of her dad’s brain? Is his madness genetic? Or is this just the way she’s beginning to deal with what her life has become since she fought and killed a Romero in the basement?

“You,” she says when the laughter slows, “are _such_ a goody-goody. How have you not gotten yourself killed by now?”

Even as she sighs, Liv glares at her. “Funny what being a decent person and making friends will do for your chances of survival.” She pauses, arching her eyebrows. “Have fun sharing your head with your dad.”

She turns and leaves, joining Major and their detective friend as they head out. Major spares Rita a glance before they’re all gone to who knows where together.

Friendship. What a load of bullshit. If being someone’s daughter hadn’t been enough to earn a person’s protection, then friendship means nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Du Clark.”

Rita keeps her head bowed and her face hidden behind one hand even after the cameraman stops filming and the rest of the news crew walks away, only the reporter staying behind to set a hand on her shoulder.

“I never imagined—” She says, but she does not continue, instead giving in to the fading shock of the night’s events. It will read like she’s grieving for her father. That’s all that matters. No one needs to know that her tears are for show, and maybe for the life she thought she’d live.

As the reporter leaves to join his team in the channel’s van, Rita drops the act and heads back to Vivian and her people. One of the higher-ranking soldiers with her holds a familiar bag, one Rita had thought was lost forever to the cleanup operation.

“Where was he keeping it?” she asks the soldier.

He and Vivian exchange a look and turn to face Rita.

“A safe in his office,” says the soldier. He holds out the bag; Rita takes it.

“Must’ve been important to him,” remarks Vivian. “He wouldn’t have bothered with it otherwise. Maybe he did intend to get you a cure.”

As Vivian speaks, Rita unzips the bag and checks its contents. It’s everything she had on her when Janko kidnapped her, all of her clothes folded up, keys and phone and wallet in side pockets, just the way she prefers.

The soldier heads off to do Rita doesn’t know or care what, but Vivian remains, watching Rita like a hawk.

“So, what are you going to do now?”

Rita shoulders her bag and shrugs. “Retire young. Have all the sex I want.”

“No you won’t.” Vivian’s voice is stern, the laidback smirk gone from her face in an instant. “Not with humans, anyway. You’ll turn them if you do.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? This is a goddamn STI?”

“For all practical purposes, yes.”

“Damnit.” She runs a hand through her newly dyed hair and sighs heavily. “You said you think of everything. Do you keep a listing of every zombie you come across?”

Vivian arches her eyebrows. “Yes, we do, but it’s not some personals list.”

“Fine.” Rita breathes deep and grips the strap of her bag tight enough that she feels an ache in her knuckles, releasing the tension as she exhales. Slow-moving blood flows freely through her fingers again. “Fine. I guess I’ll be Seattle’s number one wine consumer.”

Vivian snickers, smirking again. “Or you could get a job.” Pausing, she shrugs. “Come work for us.”

“Private military contractors?” Rita gives a wry smirk, says the next thing that comes to mind before she even processes the words. “Or something a little more _personal_? You need an assistant, right?”

“ _Stop_ ,” Vivian snaps, all business, all leader. “You know what? We’ll talk later, once Vaughn’s brain is out of your system. Think about what you want from life. Think about whose side you want to be on when shit hits the fan. When you’re _you_ again, come see me. There’s a business card in your bag.”

She starts to leave then, two steps away when Rita calls out to her.

“Wait.” She pauses, and when Vivian faces her again, Rita goes on. “I have one question.” There is no trace of the usual arrogance or enjoyment of casual cruelty on her face or in her voice. “Are you looking for a cure?”

Vivian takes a deep breath and meets Rita’s gaze head on. “My priority is to protect my people from those who would hurt them. That means protecting them from humans. Would I like for there to be a cure? Yes. But not until I can guarantee that my people will be alive when it’s ready.”

So, no, Fillmore Graves is not working on a cure. Rita nods. “I’ll be in touch.”

She watches Vivian walk away, then heads off to call a cab to take her home.

 

* * *

 

At four am, she wakes gasping and nauseated from a nightmare of her father feeding a member of the board of directors to a Romero. She’d felt the cool stillness of his mind as he locked the door behind the man, the absolute absence of emotion as he released the monster and watched it feast. He might have flinched once or twice as blood splattered onto the glass keeping him safe, but neither the screams nor the gore were enough to make him need to look away.

It’s not a surprise that Vaughn murdered people. It’s simply that she never wanted to witness the murders taking place. Yet here she is, dreaming in vivid detail, seeing it from his point of view.

It’s a good thing she can’t taste the bile that burns her throat when she throws up.

There’s no use trying to sleep again, because—just like Liv said—she can’t control this, can’t know what is or isn’t a trigger for visions and memories. Rita brushes her teeth out of habit as the sun begins to light up the horizon and contemplates staying in all day, not even watching the news for her appearance, not even _drinking_ because that too could be a trigger. Even from beyond the grave, her dad is in charge.

Well, she won’t let him have the satisfaction.

She goes for Vivian’s business card, turning it over once in her hand before putting it back down in an effort not to summon a disgusting memory. Then, before she’s even aware of it, she picks up her phone and sends her first text message since she was scratched in the basement.

_“U up?”_

It takes Major less than a minute to respond.

_“What do you want?”_

_“Nightmares to stop.”_

There’s a longer delay before he responds. He’s probably talking with Liv, relaying Rita’s messages over as he receives them. Are they still together now that they’re both zombies? Is Liv going to punish him forever for the damage Rita caused? He still deserves it, Rita believes. If he’d just killed the zombies like her dad told him to, maybe this whole mess could’ve been avoided.

Probably not, knowing how completely heartless her dad was, but it’s easier to blame him than it is to blame herself.

_“They will. Give it time.”_

“Time?” She scoffs and rolls her eyes, even though he can’t see or hear her. Then she sends, _“Quality time with my departed dad. Just what I always wanted.”_

Mere seconds later, Major replies, _“Guess you can get your answer this way.”_

Her slow-moving blood goes cold as it comes back to her, the horror of knowing Vaughn had unleashed the poison gas, the wild madness in his eyes, the twisting ache in her chest as what her mom had always told her revealed itself to be true.

Major remembers that?

_“Answer to what?”_

Then, with barely a delay, comes the answer. _“Whether he ever cared about you or not.”_

Anger flares through her, burning hot from her stomach, outward through all of her. Of course he never cared. Of course he only ever meant to make her feel like he did for as long as it was convenient, for as long as he needed her on his side. If he’d cared, he wouldn’t have tried to kill her in the end. If he’d cared, he would’ve held the elevator door for her.

If he’d cared, he would’ve been there her whole life through.

She must have been lost in her thoughts longer than she thought, because when her phone vibrates in her hand, it’s like she’s waking up again. _“You ok?”_ lies at the bottom of their message chain. She can almost hear him saying it.

_“I’m a zombie. What do you think.”_

_“Yeah. I get it.”_ Maybe five seconds later, he adds, _“Liv’s offer of a different brain still stands.”_

Another brain would wipe Vaughn’s from her system. No more dreams of ugly murder, no more risk of visions of a man whose life before his daughter can’t have been any better than what it wound up becoming.

No more possibilities that she might see something that tells her whether or not he ever loved her.

_“You’re all too nice. It’s disgusting.”_

_“Idk, you should give it a shot.”_

_“In your dreams.”_

That’s where Major stops responding. Rita lets the conversation drop.

She heads to bed again and lies on her back, staring at the pristine ceiling overhead. _“Whether he ever cared about you or not”_ flashes in and out of her sight. What could she possibly do to trigger that kind of vision? It’s too specific, and she knows far too little about her dad to even begin to come up with ideas. The best she can do now is try to sleep again. If nothing else, it’ll pass the time, so she closes her eyes and sighs slowly, releasing the tension in her muscles as she drifts off.

 

* * *

 

The next day, she goes to the morgue, receiving stares and a few condolences along the way, the latter of which she acknowledges with a quick nod. The game will never end. She will always be Vaughn Du Clark’s daughter.

Liv is wiping down a table when Rita walks in, the clacking of her heels echoing in the wide space of the basement morgue, announcing her presence long before she stops across the table from Liv and pulls off her sunglasses.

“You’re here for brains,” Liv states, face blank, gaze calm.

Rita stares her down with one eyebrow arched as she folds her sunglasses shut. “I’ll have whatever you’re on.”

“We’re all out.”

“You’re lying.”

Inhaling deeply, Liv straightens, her gaze never once leaving Rita’s. “Vaughn’s brains too much for you?”

“You know,” Rita says, tucking her sunglasses into a side pocket in her bag, “you’re really bad at this whole good guy routine. Shouldn’t you be welcoming me into the fold with open arms? I’m just another one of Vaughn’s victims too.”

“You’re part of the reason this all happened the way it did.” Liv shrugs, holding her ground for another few seconds, until the real her comes through and a sigh slips through the cracks of the armor created by the brain she’s on. “We’re all out of Janko brain.”

“Janko?” Rita rolls her eyes. “Now _that’s_ ironic. Have you had a vision yet of when he broke into your apartment to kidnap me?”

“Wait—when were you in my apartment after—”

Rita arches both eyebrows as the pieces fall together in Liv’s head. She’s slow for someone who’s supposed to be smart, someone on her way to becoming a heart surgeon, but she finally gets it and meets Rita’s gaze again when it’s crystal clear.

“That scarf. It was yours.”

“I’d like that back, by the way.”

Liv scowls. “The only reason I offered you brains is because I don’t want _you_ to unleash the zombie apocalypse on Seattle.”

“Then maybe Major should’ve just shot me when he had the chance.” Rita shrugs. “Don’t act like you don’t wish I’d died last night. So do I, to be honest.”

That seems to throw Liv off balance, even with Janko brain in her system. Rita can’t help but smirk.

“I don’t _have_ to help you, you know,” Liv tells her, scowling again. “There’s another brain supplier I can refer you to. He runs a funeral home.”

“Like I’m going to trust some stranger over my ex-roomie?”

“Okay, why are you _really_ here, Rita? If all you wanted was brains, you’d just play along and be gone by now.”

“Is Major around?”

“He’s not interested.”

“Aw, you two together again? The best way to get over someone is to get under—or _onto_ —someone else.”

“Get out.”

Rita holds her ground, not even raising an eyebrow.

“ _Out_ ,” Liv snaps. “Just because you’re a zombie now doesn’t mean I have to be nice to you. You’re a cold-hearted, sick bitch either way.”

Chuckling, Rita tosses her head, dyed hair all but flashing in the white lights overhead. “But I’ll be _hungry_ soon, Liv. _Too_ hungry. You’d let that happen?”

“I can’t believe this,” Liv mutters, rolling her eyes. “Fine. Just this once. I’m sticking Blaine’s contact information on the container I’m giving you. No excuses.”

“My _hero_ ,” Rita coos after her, but that’s as far as she takes it. She has what she wanted, and some food too. It’s a shame Liv’s doctor friend isn’t here. He’s not hard to look at; just the sight of him would make the wait less boring.

Liv comes back too quickly for Rita to do more than take the short walk to the drawers along the wall. As promised, there’s a sticky note with a name and phone number on the container.

“Put it in your bag,” Liv says, voice hard. “If anyone sees—”

“ _Relax_ , ex-roomie. I know a secret that needs to be kept when I see one.” Rita tucks the container into her bag and pulls out her sunglasses. She shoots Liv a smile and puts them on, waves once, and leaves the way she came here.

 

* * *

 

“You held out longer than I expected,” Vivian remarks once the door to her office is shut behind Rita. “And you don’t look like you’re starving, either.”

“I paid an old enemy a visit.” Rita shrugs, calm and collected, the barest hint of a smile on her face. Janko brain is a good brain to be on. She feels almost like she used to before the first time her father left her to die in the basement.

Vivian smirks a little. “I can tell. You don’t look like you want to get in my pants.”

“I want a job.”

In truth, what Rita wants is something to do. Her inheritance is more than enough to live off of, and she can procure brains one way or another, but the last three days have shown her that having nothing to do is worse than the hunger. Maybe if she’d been able to keep busy with more than trashy TV and sleeping pills, she could’ve triggered something useful from Vaughn’s brains; but all she got instead were meaningless memories of board meetings and luxury vacations. Nothing worse than the time he fed a board member to a Romero, but nothing good enough to make the meal worth it.

She doesn’t regret killing him, but the high she’d gotten from that quick and poetically just revenge had been too short-lived.

Leaning back in her seat, Vivian crosses her arms and looks Rita up and down. “Not battlefield material,” she remarks—and Rita holds back the urge to roll her eyes, because _obviously_ she’s not a fighter. “But we can find you something.”

“I’m good with people.”

“That you are.” Vivian’s smirk widens. “Tell you what—stay the day. Do the assistant thing. Take lunch with some of our people here. Call it a test run. If you hate it, you’re free to go, though I can pretty much guarantee you that no one else offers zombie-friendly catering like we do.”

“How _do_ your soldiers manage to fight without triggering visions?”

Vivian shrugs. “Stay for lunch and see for yourself.”

Something about the way Vivian says that unlocks the door to one of Janko’s memories, and Rita is lost for a few seconds in a vision of Vaughn, shaken, giving Janko the order to find Rita. _“Don’t kill her,”_ he says.

And before she gets anything more, she snaps out of it to find Vivian standing at her side.

“That’s gotta be old by now,” says Vivian, a corner of her mouth pulled back just the slightest bit.

Is that sympathy or snark? Rita can’t tell; she is swimming in another ocean now.

Straightening, she meets Vivian’s gaze. “What do you need assisting with first?”

Vivian regards her for a moment, then nods and gestures to her desk. “Here’s what my morning looks like. I’m not giving you a tablet unless you’re staying, but I can get you a print-out.”

“I don’t need one.” Rita didn’t get to where she was before Max Rager went up in flames without being able to memorize something as simple as a schedule.

As Rita reads the lines on the computer screen, Vivian watches her and nods. “Off to a good start.”

Even without Janko brains keeping her steady, Rita would keep her face blank despite the shock that little bit of praise sends through her. “That almost sounded sincere.”

“I don’t make a habit of lying to my people,” Vivian states, crossing her arms. “You’re getting a full preview of what it’s like to work with us.”

Rita gives a quick, wry laugh. “You must really need someone like me here.”

“Not really.” Vivian shrugs. “I just like the thought of sticking it to your dad.”

Despite the pervasive influence of Janko’s training, Rita smirks. Vivian’s tactics are familiar, almost comforting—and warm, somehow. She may be the head of a company of mercenaries, but Vivian Stoll is not heartless, not a sociopath, not a monster.

Vivian Stoll is not Vaugh Du Clark.

“Can’t argue with that,” says Rita, and she turns to face the woman whose offer she’s going to accept. “Okay. The day begins.”

 

* * *

 

She finds an easy rhythm with Fillmore Graves.

It’s nothing new, being the assistant to the CEO. What’s different now is that her boss doesn’t see her as disposable. Janko brain has long since left her system, but the visions of him talking to Vaughn or carrying out his orders brought solidity to the vague notions she’d had about her father’s disregard for human life—and for zombie life, in the last year or two of his time on the planet. The only zombie he’d ever thought to spare was her, but that had only lasted as long as his own life hadn’t been in the balance.

Vivian Stoll genuinely cares for her people. She is fierce under her cool demeanor, protecting both the soldiers and the kids on premises. Rita learns the company’s story, the tale of the ill-fated picnic that indirectly cursed them all to a new diet and an expensive beauty regimen, all for the sake of standing a chance at life.

“Not that anyone would _want_ to be a zombie,” Vivian tells her one day in the elevator, “but if you _have_ to become one, you should get a choice in the matter. So I gave them a choice.”

The validation of her own anger, of the reasons Rita still hates her father, is a perk she can’t put a price on. And for someone who doesn’t need the money to live, it’s all the more reason to stay.

 

* * *

 

Running into Major a few weeks into the job is another nice bonus.

“Relax,” she tells him, tapping away an alert on her company tablet. “I work here, too.”

He sighs, shaking his head, and meets her gaze. “Look, just don’t—”

“Don’t tell Liv?” She snickers. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah, I do, but I also know you’re not above blackmail.”

This time, Rita’s laugh is deeper, water tumbling down to jagged rocks, clear and deadly all at once. “You are so _cute_ thinking I have anything to gain from you. I have meals, I have a long line of your brothers in arms ready and willing to sleep with me, I have money, I have an _army_ at my side—I’m done playing with you and Liv.”

“Wow.” Major shakes his head again, shoulders shaking in a dry chuckle. “Okay. Guess some things never change.” Arching both eyebrows, he nods at her. “See you around.”

She watches him go for only a few seconds, eyes narrowed. Fillmore Graves keeps throwing new things at her. This one will take a little longer to figure out, but she’ll unravel the mystery. For now, she has work to do.

 

* * *

 

In time, Major becomes the closest thing to a friend she’s ever had. That mostly means they talk regularly and don’t snark at each other _all_ the time, but it’s still new, another gift from Fillmore Graves, another _fuck you_ to her father’s memory.

“By the way,” Major starts one day over lunch. “Did you ever find out about your dad?”

Rita licks her lips, to be sure she’s had every drop of brain mush possible. “I’m going to need you to be more specific.”

He glances down at his tube of brain goo, then meets her gaze again. “If he cared about you or not.”

Flattening out her now empty tube of brains, she looks out across the grounds. In the distance, one of the squadrons is running the perimeter, every movement in perfect unison. For the short time she’d been on Janko brain, she never came across anything that triggered a vision of his training. She will never know what it’s like to work out for more than keeping slim, and unless she asks to learn how to defend herself, she’ll only have Romero mode to rely on in a fight.

“No,” she says, once the silence has dragged on long enough.

“‘No’ as in ‘no, he never cared’ or ‘no, I never found out’?”

“I never found out.” She shrugs and glances at Major. “The most I got was that he told Janko not to kill me. One of Vivian’s people found my bag in a safe in his office, but beyond that?” She shakes her head, eyebrows arched, and shrugs again. “No clear answer one way or the other.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“You _would_ say that.”

“Hey.” Snickering, he raises his hands as if in surrender. “Former social worker. Old habits die hard.”

She folds her empty brain goo tube and rolls her eyes. “You can stop being a saint any time now.”

“I don’t know, maybe you should give it a try.”

“Being a saint?”

“Being _nice_ ,” he clarifies. “You didn’t spawn from Vaughn’s forehead or something, right? I assume your mother was a better person than he was. Not that he set the bar high for that, but you know.”

“She was an alcoholic who loved to party,” she tells him, with the detachment of someone who’s long since laid the dead to rest. “But she _was_ better, yes. She cared about me. I’m not some tragic little girl who would’ve been a sweetheart if her parents had just loved her enough.”

For a moment, Major looks at her like he has something to say—something goody-two-shoesy, probably—but when he opens his mouth, all he does is sigh. With a shake of his head, his frowning face gives way to a relaxed expression and a smile.

“I’ve got training,” he says, standing. He crumples up his brain goo tube and tosses it in the nearby trash can, then holds his hand out to her.

It’s not an offer to walk with her, or a request that she walk with him; they’re going in opposite directions, like pretty much always. What he wants is to throw her trash out for her, a silent gesture that means he won’t press for more of a friendship than whatever of one it is they have.

She puts the folded-up plastic tube in his hand and watches him toss it. Then, when he gives her a smile good-bye, she gets up and heads off to Vivian’s office to start the rest of her day.

 

* * *

 

Rita waits for Vivian just inside the door that looks out on the landing pad. The helicopter is here, and they’ll both be boarding it, but the noise from the rotor is not conducive to last-minute any updates Vivian might be inclined to give.

Footsteps echo from up the hall. Rita recognizes them as her boss’s and puts a hand on the door handle, ready to push it open for them both.

“No changes?” she asks when Vivian is near enough that she doesn’t need to raise her voice.

Vivian shakes her head. “No. Let’s go.”

The noise is almost deafening from the moment Rita opens the door, and the gusts the rotor produces throw her hair into disarray. She should’ve tied it back. It’s not as if she didn’t know this was going to happen.

It’s no quieter inside the helicopter, so once seated, she scowls down at her tablet just to have something to do. Beside her, Vivian does the same.

Before the helicopter lifts off, Rita swipes aside the reminder for Vivian’s meeting with Major. She’ll have to actually work to keep in touch with him now that he’s been forced to take a sabbatical. What a shame, she thinks as she looks out the window. It was so much easier to pretend they didn’t get along well enough to bother with texting each other.

This isn’t the first time she sees Fillmore Graves from above, but it _is_ the first time she searches for someone specific on the ground. Rita catches sight of a familiar cop and a far too blonde medical examiner, and smirks fondly when she sees a third person join them, good guys sticking together through it all. She snickers a little, leaning back in her seat. That doesn’t seem like such a bad life after all.

In the moments before the explosion—in the milliseconds after it begins and she knows without a doubt that she is going to die—Rita shuts her eyes and watches her life flash before them. Even this is a piece of revenge against her father, because rather than die a maddened shell of who she used to be, she is herself until the end.


End file.
